


Lost in the Folds of Your Skirt

by objectlesson



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Clothes Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/F, Overstimulation, PWP, Post-Canon, Post-War, Power Dynamics, Sharing Clothes, Teasing, light humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 18:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16624349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: “It was traumatizing,” Harriet sputters. “You once wore iton a broom, just to make me angry, I think. I remember venting all through dinner to Hermione about what an absolute tart you were and how horrified I was that I had to see your knickers. She asked me why I was looking, and in retrospect I should have thought more about that.”Draco laughs, beginning to remember now how she taunted Potter during Quidditch practice in second year with the skirt, which at the time was already too short and tight for her. “See,youwere the tart,” she tells Harriet, tossing her the skirt. It thuds against her chest because she’s staring, too dumbfounded to catch it in time. “Go ahead...try it on. Let’s see how it looks.”





	Lost in the Folds of Your Skirt

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhhh this is basically just porn because I really like the idea of Draco dressing Harriet up in her clothes? I wrote it in like five hours totally for Blake as an anniversary gift, so it's also a collection of everything Blake, in particular, enjoys about Drarry. I hope some of you enjoy it, too! Title is from Depeche Mode's Sweetest Condition. (I might also...be writing a long prequel to this?? stay tuned.) 
> 
> Thank you to Jen, who is willing to read anything I throw at her. I love and value you so much!

Malfoy Manor stands untouched since the war. 

This is largely because Draco simply _cannot_ bring herself to go back for several years. She knows tendrils of ivy are conspiring to overtake it, that it might be crumbling in on itself while the magic that protects it swallows the foundation whole in a jealous, abandoned rage, but still. The idea of going back is insurmountable. 

Until things change, of course. 

Directly after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco and her mother move to the Lestrange estate; the following year, when the absolutely _useless_ Harriet Potter stops being so _very_ _useless_ and finally realizes that their dogged obsession with each other better suits them both as lovers instead of enemies, she moves into the old Black house at 12 Grimmauld Place with Harriet and begins chipping away at the damage from the war. Not just on the house but on Harriet. On herself. It doesn't feel like healing yet, but maybe it’s the beginning of such a thing. 

—-

She and Harriet spent a good deal of time magicking Grimmauld Place back to its former glory, and somehow, over the course of the project, Draco realizes that she’s ready to face the manor again and do the same there. Maybe it’s the act of restoring a space less entwined with her heart and history. Or maybe it’s being in love for the first time (and realizing that she’s been in love for a long time), Harriet’s cheeks ruddy with the exertion of having her wand arm raised for hours as she uses a cleaning charm to strip layers of dirt and old magic from the dining room ceiling. It doesn’t matter why, she supposes, but she knows it’s time. It’ll be easier to face the room in which the Dark Lord touched her cheek with cold fingers if Harriet Potter is by her side. 

Narcissa, who does not approve of Draco living with Harriet even if she says she does, disappears to one of the family cottages in Dover when she hears of Draco’s plans, stating that she needs some sea air for her complexion. There’s no one to stop them or greet them or warn them away from the gates when they arrive with their trunks, Draco’s mouth set in a resolute line. 

“You don't have to do this,” Harriet earnestly reminds her for the hundredth time. 

“I know, but _someone_ does, and mum’s certainly not up to the task. Besides, we've gotten so very _good_ at remodeling,” Draco smirks, reaching up to flick Harriet gently on the back of the ear as if they’re still petulant school girls stalking each other warily, as if that’s a normal way to treat your supposed rival. Harriet recently cut her hair, and instead of the messy chin-length non-style she’s sported for years, it’s shaved on the sides and back and tousled up top. Her ears are visible all the time now, even as the sides are beginning to grow in, and it makes Draco want to constantly touch the delicate dark edges of them. Or maybe _that’s_ a function of being in love. It’s hard to parse this stuff out. “There are wards on the house, so let’s hope they don't kill you,” she grimaces, using her wand to unlatch the entryway.

It’s certainly a shell of its former glory. As she predicted, ivy is climbing the walls and tangling the sides of the gate together even as they creak and pull away, the black paint chipping off the iron, everything dull and dusty and rain-spattered. Draco anticipated that she would feel _sad_ or regretful, but oddly, she’s rather numb inside. Without even realizing it, she takes Harriet’s hand as they cross the threshold, squeezing her gently as they go. 

—-

No one is struck dead. Still, Draco bites back the sudden wave of dizzy anxiety she feels as they walk up the overgrown path to the house itself.

The Dark Lord isn’t hiding inside, she _knows_ this, but the last time she set foot in these halls, he was here, too, and it’s a hard memory to shake. She uses her wand to push the heavy mahogany doors open, casting her gaze across the foyer, and the feeling dies. There's nothing here, _nothing at all._

The vacancy is palpable, everything somber and lonely and neglected as she breathes a sigh of relief. “Your palm is sweating,” Harriet observes. 

Normally, she would snap back with something snide, like, _actually, it’s_ your _palm that’s sweating,_ or, _you try returning to the place where you were last tortured while you watched your father’s sanity unravel perspiration-free,_ but instead she disentangles their fingers and wipes her hand on her robes. She doesn't know what to say, there’s nothing _to_ say when you're standing beside Harriet Potter, and she was tortured here, _too,_ saw horrible things here, _too,_ never had a father to lose his mind _._ The only concrete difference that sets their experiences of the manor apart from one another is that it used to be Draco’s home. She used to belong here, love it here, feel safe and protected here. Now it’s dusty and desolate and filled with the echo of screams, and that blood feels like it’s splattered all over her childhood memories. “Sorry,” is what she decides on, her voice even. Apologizing is one of the things that she’s been working on, since Harriet. “It’s rather odd...being here, I mean.” 

“It is, isn’t it,” Harriet agrees, carding a hand through her messy hair before pushing her glasses up her nose. They’re familiar, comforting tics, and just watching them makes Draco feel like she can do anything. 

“Well, then...shall we get started?” Draco sighs, heeled boots clicking on the marble floor as she begins to sweep the perimeter of the foyer. “S’not as bad as I expected, actually. These old magic houses sometimes self-destruct or rapidly decay if they’re abandoned...m’quite surprised there's really only dust.” 

It’s true of the whole house, not just the foyer. The manor is eerily unchanged, a layer of grime on things and windows cloudy from a lack of cleaning, but nothing like the destruction and blanket of residual dark magic she expected or the pile of rubble and bones she dreaded in her nightmares. She and Harriet complete an initial sweep and find nothing out of the ordinary; the house seems to gratefully accept her presence, hallways brightening up as she strides down them, drapes snapping up in a billow of dust as she brushes by.

Fortunately, nothing tries to kill Harriet. In _fact,_ the manor sighs around her, too, as if allowing a tremendous, decades-old burden to slip, the rafters settling themselves a little higher and more proudly in her presence. Like it did a good job by Harriet Potter, like it’s righted some terrible wrong. It makes Draco wonder if magic houses are a reflection of their owners more than she realized. She feared the manor’s magic was too old and pure and dark to let the girl who defeated the Dark Lord to pass through it easily, but maybe she was mistaken, maybe some of her own magic has seeped into the floorboards over time as well. Not only her quiet, pitiful resistance to the Death Eaters but also her long-standing infatuation with Harriet Potter. After all, it’s a force that began _before_ Draco even met her, back when she was just a little girl sitting on her father’s knee, listening to stories about the Girl Who Lived, a child just like her, same age, similar breeding, who defeated a grown wizard so powerful that no one knew how she did it. 

Draco imagines all of that childhood wonder and fascination seeping out of her mind and into the manor’s walls while she dreamt, and it seems less preposterous that Harriet should be welcome here. 

—-

They spend three days cleaning and three nights sleeping in Draco’s childhood room without doing so much as chastely kissing and spooning each other to sleep. It’s at least in part because they’re exhausted; even if the house isn’t horribly damaged, it’s filthy and massive. Simply _walking_ about and up and down the stairs for hours is taxing, but on top of that, it takes Draco a while to really _settle_ into her old room, reconcile all her memories about it with the reality of Harriet Potter snoring beside her, black hair stuck to her pillow when she wakes up. 

It’s surreal, really, because this is the room she’d stay up in, plotting her revenge on Potter for the next school term, the same room in which she wrote angry diary entries detailing how unfair it was that Potter was on the Quidditch team, had a Nimbus 2000, picked _mudblood_ and _Weasley_ over Draco, was absurdly pretty, even if she didn't know it and Draco would never admit it aloud. But it’s also the same room where she’d sit with her knees drawn to her chest and her breath held tight, trying to drown out the screams downstairs, willing herself to become invisible lest the Dark Lord grow tired of whoever he was torturing and come find her instead. 

And it’s the same room she’s staying in now, arm slung over Harriet’s waist as they drift off to sleep, face pressed against the jut of her spine, both of them alive, somehow, in spite of everything. 

Making new memories in this room feels strange, so Draco goes about it slowly, methodically, taking her time as she catalogs images in her head for later: Harriet sprawled out on her bed staring up at the canopy, saying, _I cannot_ believe _you slept under this fucking velvet tapestry nonsense when you were a_ kid, Harriet on her hands and knees, peering under the armoire and using a charm to clear it free from cobwebs, bits of the displaced ones adhering themselves to her hair. Harriet with toothpaste on her mouth as she pads in from the ensuite, looking positively knackered.

It helps when they start getting rid of things. She begins with her desk, which never fails to send her right back to her dreadful sixth year at Hogwarts every time she looks at it, a visceral reminder of where she shakily sat down to cry after she was told that the only way to free her father from Azkaban was to kill her headmaster. She hates everything about this memory, so she decides to send the desk to a charity shop, not even wanting the money that might come from reselling it to Borgin and Burkes. She feels better when it’s gone, _lighter,_ so she starts to replace other items of furniture. There’s a desk that she's always liked in the study, so she levitates it up to her room in place of the old one. Next is the only comfortable armchair in the parlor, the bedside table in her mother’s room that she’s fond of, and as she sends things out, she brings new things in, and with every passing day, her room feels more like her own. 

—-

Harriet is the one who suggests going through the contents of her wardrobe, and Draco suspects it’s because Harriet harbors a weird clothing fetish. 

She’s always been obsessed with what Draco wears, ever since they were kids and she’d make a big fuss out of scoffing at it. Now, it’s one of the few things that Draco can habitually rely on to get her all flushed and stupid. 

Draco’s working theory is that in wearing posh dress robes, she becomes the physical embodiment of a lifestyle Harriet felt she was barred from but can now _touch_ by touching Draco. Or maybe Draco just has impeccable taste, an enormous amount of money, and fabulous style, and Harriet gets off on that for some odd, shameful reason. 

Regardless, she raises an eyebrow when Harriet suggests sorting through the wardrobe. “You just want to touch all my pretty things,” she tells her with a lopsided grin. “The dress I wore to the Yule Ball, the one you wanted so badly to get under.” 

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” she snaps, though she also colours, which means Draco hit a nerve. “I thought _you_ were the one who wanted to get rid of things and redecorate.” 

“No, carry on, I’m fine cleaning out the closet. I’m sure most of it doesn’t fit me anymore anyway, so we can send it to a less _fortunate_ witch—”

“Or we can give it to a muggle charity shop,” Harriet interjects, and Draco tries very, very hard not to bristle at the idea of some muggle teenager wearing her _Yule Ball gown_ to a club in Soho or something equally tragic. 

“Or that...sure, fine,” Draco says lightly, settling back as Harriet eagerly throws open the wardrobe, levitates each drawer out to set on the trunk at the foot of Draco’s bed, and grins smugly like it’s Christmas morning. 

—-

They end up having a bit of fun with the clothes, actually. There are some truly terrible items, not because Draco has _ever_ worn anything less than what was exactly in fashion at the time, but because fashion isn’t fixed, styles change, there’s more than a decade’s worth of clothing in these drawers, and some fads are worth shoving into the back-most drawers and never speaking of again.

She had forgotten, for example, that period of time during her second year at Hogwarts when charmed singing bird hairclips were all the rage. She and Pansy were the first to don them, but within weeks, they were everywhere, so she’d sent these ones home to be stuffed into her wardrobe and forgotten forever. When she and Harriet unearth them, the hairclips immediately start shrieking, voices shrill and off-pitch because the charm has decayed over time. “Professor Flitwick _hated_ these, do you remember how he banned them in his class?” Harriet asks, holding one up to the light to peer at. “I never had one, obviously, and I said they were stupid at the time, but I think I secretly wanted one.” 

“You have a _knack,_ Potter, forcalling things stupid yet secretly wanting them,” Draco coos, batting her lashes. She takes the prettiest of the hairclips, a peacock, and fixes the charm to silence it. “Even on a good day, no one wants to wear a peacock call,” she muses before clipping the bird into Harriet’s messy hair. It’s a challenge with most of her curls gone, but Draco finally gets it right, and Harriet is suddenly quiet, thick-throated, as she leans in to kiss her, making Draco incredibly grateful that she hung on to so many odd little relics from her school days. 

An hour or so into investigating the wardrobe’s contents, Draco burns out and flops onto the bed to watch Harriet, who’s still thoroughly immersed. She keeps gently removing articles of clothing from each drawer, shaking them out, and tracing her fingers over the seams or the lace or the embroidery for a moment, a private conversation with herself and Draco’s garment before asking Draco if she wants to keep it or not. Draco’s fascinated by the whole process, could watch those careful brown hands folding and unfolding for hours, so she does. 

She’s about to nod off when Harriet snorts so loudly that she’s startled out of half-sleep. “Of all the things you’ve kept, this is the most ridiculous,” she announces. 

Curious, Draco sits up, rubbing her eyes. “Do share.” 

Harriet holds up a Hogwarts uniform skirt, the sort that only first-year girls ever _actually_ wear under their robes, when they’re still young enough to think that it’s worth freezing the bit of skin between the bottom hem of it and your knee socks when you walk to and from classes. Nearly all the older students opt for trousers, and Draco had been ahead of the game in this department, wearing custom high-waisted slacks in black and silver for the majority of her time at Hogwarts. She wrinkles her nose at the skirt. “ _God,_ I never actually wore that, I wouldn't have been caught _dead_ in it _._ What’s that even doing in there?” 

Harriet mouth falls open, and she makes an affronted face. “You abso-fucking-lutely _did,_ Malfoy _._ I distinctly remember at least twice.” 

“You would,” Draco teases, snatching the shirt away to hold it up, get a better look. The green plaid is a shade brighter than Slytherin house colours, which makes her head hurt a bit. 

“It was traumatizing,” Harriet sputters. “You once wore it _on a broom_ , just to make me angry, I think. I remember venting all through dinner to Hermione about what an absolute tart you were and how horrified I was that I had to see your knickers. She asked me why I was looking, and in retrospect I should have thought more about that.” 

Draco laughs, beginning to remember now how she taunted Potter during Quidditch practice in second year with the skirt, which at the time was already too short and tight for her. “See, _you_ were the tart,” she tells Harriet, tossing her the skirt. It thuds against her chest because she’s staring, too dumbfounded to catch it in time. “Go ahead...try it on. Let’s see how it looks.”

She’s mostly joking, but as soon as she issues the suggestion, the air changes Harriet gulps, eyes getting dark, and Draco realizes too late that her voice was low and cold and taunting, the way it gets when she gives Harriet orders in bed. They stare at each other, and the fact that it’s been _days_ since they did anything but work seems to hit them both at the same moment. She licks her lips. “Put it on, Potter.” 

Harriet stands slowly on wobbly legs and shucks her ugly muggle leggings in one fluid motion. Draco wants to kiss her ashy knees, but she stays where she is, lounging on the bed in her robes, watching intently. “I don’t think it’ll fit, s’like, made for a kid,” Harriet says, not argumentatively but almost apologetically, like she’s already in the space she gets into when she wants to be told exactly what to do, when she _wants_ Draco to take charge of her. 

“It will,” Draco assures her. “It’s not like you have hips wider than mine were when I was that age. Go on, pull it up…yes, like that, perfect. Come over here, and let me do the zipper,” she orders, and Harriet’s very nearly _trembling_ as Draco makes deft work of the fastening. It _does_ fit, albeit just barely, riding a bit lower on Harriet since she doesn’t have Draco’s curves or legginess. 

She’s wearing a plaid flannel shirt, and double plaid is atrocious, which is the only motivation Draco has in ordering it off, but as soon as she sees the final product, her breath catches. Harriet’s wearing a flimsy black bralette, the elastic of it stretched out and the lace frayed, her nipples already hard and showing through. “Potter, why do you dress like you don’t have a galleon to your name?” she asks, making quick work of the bra and repairing the holes with her wand. The magic cinches tight, and Harriet’s delicious little tits are even more visible and pronounced now, but still, Draco wants more. “Do I have any bras in the wardrobe?” she asks. “Training bras, perhaps?” 

Harriet’s chews her lip, eyes flashing. “Yes.” 

“Put a black one on...should be about your size. And turn your back to me, let’s be decent about this,” she chides gently, watching Harriet immediately reach for the right drawer, as if she’s been aware for the duration of their clothing sorting project _exactly_ where Draco’s training bras are hidden. It delights her, but not as much as watching her struggle into one, the padding of it cutting into her skin. It’s a little too tight, which is perfect because it presses her wide-set, palm-sized tits together with a crease in the middle, making her look like she’s spilling out, lewd and kissable. “ _Now_ who’s the tart?” Draco asks, hopping off the bed and walking up to Harriet, circling her like a bird of prey. 

“They’re _your_ clothes,” Harriet answers somewhat defiantly, standing still but sort of vibrating, eyes downcast and lips plump from worrying them between her teeth. Her defiance in these moments is always a ruse, a gambit to get Draco to snap and put her over a knee, spank her, or maybe push her down onto the bed and use her mouth in the way that she loves it to be used. 

Harriet Potter is an absolute masochist, and Draco supposes it should have surprised her, but instead, it seemed oddly fitting. Cosmic, actually, that a girl who had experienced pain and control for so long would learn to find a way to make it not just bearable but enjoyable. Draco feels so lucky, so _trusted_ ,to be the one who gets to give this to her. 

Generally, Draco loves to tease far more than she likes to hurt, and Harriet always overestimates how severe a punishment she deserves. They meet sweetly and messily somewhere in the middle, Harriet crying because Draco will taunt and bruise and deny her until she can’t take it anymore, but that point is always so much sooner and gentler than Harriet thinks it is, and she’s moved, terribly, at having someone _know_ where her limits are better than she does. More than anything else in the world, Harriet Potter wants to be loved and taken care of and _watched closely enough_ that she’s truly _seen_ after a lifetime of neglect and invisibility, and Draco, luckily, has spent _years_ studying her like she’s art. She likes to tease Harriet, she likes to slap her bum until it’s hot and red under her hand, but more than anything, she likes to put her back together again afterward, to lick up Harriet’s tears.

Draco uses the tip of her wand to lift the skirt up and peer underneath. “Those are _your_ knickers,” she says. “I want you in my clothes only...pick out a pair,” she tells her, letting the skirt hem fall. Then she watches as Harriet grinds her teeth, strips off her own knickers, and selects one of her favourite pairs of Draco’s from her trunk, pale green sheer with changing silver patterns on them. Draco can see the dark thatch of Harriet’s pubic hair through the gauzy transparent fabric, and her mouth waters. “Lift the skirt, show me,” she demands. 

Harriet does. Even does a little spin to demonstrate how they hug her bum. Draco realizes that this is how far her fantasy got, how far she _planned_ in advance when the skirt struck her with such inspiration. She _could_ make Harriet do the rest of the sorting wearing only Draco’s clothes, _could_ sit at the end of the bed and touch herself and force Harriet to watch, but she doesn't feel patient enough for any of that right now. She’s throbbing between her thighs, skin sweat-dewy and mouth flooded with spit, and all she really wants to do is _touch_ Harriet, lay her out and take her apart and do it for hours until they’re both drenched and panting. 

That’s her greatest accomplishment, actually. Not punishing Harriet perfectly or denying her pleasure but _pleasuring her_ until Harriet’s overwhelmed, drowned, lost to it. Orphaned Harriet Potter, who fundamentally believes that she doesn’t deserve a single good thing in the world and was raised to die by the mentor who claimed to care for her, is most beautiful when she’s broken from having come so many times that she can’t stand. Spoiled to ruin, mired in her own come. When she’s spread apart and Draco’s inside her and covered in her and can’t taste or smell anything but her and still wants more. When she’s mindless and sobbing and doesn't remember a single word besides Draco’s name. _That’s_ when Draco knows they’re going to be okay. That they both survived, that they complete each other in the exact perfect, impossible way two people ought to complete each other.

“On the bed, now,” she orders, hands trembling as she climbs in and uses her wand to draw the canopy curtains, cloaking them in heavy shadows. “I’m going to make you so wet that you soak my knickers through. Want you dripping,” she tells Harriet, mouth open on her neck, breath hot on her ear. 

Harriet gasps, bucking her hips so that the skirt bunches up between their bodies. “You can do whatever you want,” she manages to get out before Draco kisses her hard, thinking, _I know._

They snog desperately, Draco fucking the slick, perfect plush of Harriet’s mouth with her tongue as she whimpers, rolling her hips like she’s afraid Draco won’t get her off this time, like Draco doesn’t _always_ get her off more times than either of them can bother to keep track of. Draco loves how needy she gets for it, loves slowing it _way,_ way down, not just to tease but to bring that awed sparkle to the green of Harriet’s eyes, like she can’t believe someone wants her this badly. The first few times they fucked, she was _astounded_ that Draco was willing to take her time, that she paid attention to little things, that she was content to suck at Harriet’s nipples for so long, that she kissed every newly revealed bit of skin even if it was just the narrow strip beneath a bra strap. Harriet doesn’t seem to trust that Draco cherishes every inch of her, that the painstaking, thorough attention she pays to Harriet’s body isn’t just some performance or edging tactic but an expression of _genuine,_ undying hunger. Draco is always thrilled to show her, again and again.

“You look so fucking good in my sheets, Potter,” she marvels at some point, pushing Harriet down onto her back and straddling her as she struggles out of her own trousers and robes. Then, she dips her face to rub it into the damp crease between her tits, not able to stay away from Harriet’s skin for very long. “So good in my clothes, so filthy like this, dressed up in me,” she babbles against her skin, biting her, licking the indents her teeth make. “The great Harriet Potter, getting her come all over Draco Malfoy’s clothes.” 

Harriet cries out, heart picking up under the place where Draco’s mouth is open and hungry, and her breath catches at it, at how _easy_ it is to make Harriet squirm because she knows _exactly_ what she needs, how to get under her skin. “M’so wet already,” Harriet moans, and she reflexively grinds down. 

“Get your finger in it,” Draco tells her, lifting her hips so that Harriet can push a hand into her knickers. “Let me see.” 

Sure enough, after touching herself, Harriet hand is glistening, slick up to the second knuckle, and Draco practically _groans_ at how badly she wants to taste. Instead, she makes Harriet do it. “Suck that off,” she orders, pushing her hand to her swollen lips. “See what I have to fucking deal with...how good you taste, how hard it is to resist licking you up every...ah,” she murmurs, forgetting what she was even saying at the sight of Harriet’s lips sliding down the length of her finger, her glasses fogged up. “Merlin,” she gasps, her own cunt pulsing. 

“Let me suck you instead,” Harriet slurs, eyes hazy, and Draco _wants_ it but not as much as she wants Harriet even _messier,_ even more unintelligible. Getting Harriet sobbing and nonverbal with want and overwhelm is even better than having her warm mouth between her own legs, so she shakes her head, reaching between them to lift Harriet’s skirt. 

“Not until these are _drenched..._ I need to be able to see through them completely,” she manages to get out, even though she can hardly breathe, she wants her so badly. 

“Erm,” Harriet whines, shifting around as Draco examines her, squirming under the burning intensity of her gaze. “Alright.” 

“Good girl,” Draco praises, kissing her again, slapping Harriet’s hand away where it’s lingering at the hem of her knickers. “I _will_ tie you to this bed if you can’t wait. I know you’d like that.” 

“I would,” Harriet admits. 

Draco perches atop her hips, stripping out of her shirt so that she’s in nothing but her bra now, too. It’s a thin, lacy white thing, and her nipples are clearly visible through the fabric even without it being wet, but she still leans forward and pushes up against Harriet’s lips. “Suck my nipples through this so you can see them,” she instructs, stomach roiling at the perfect, eager heat of Harriet’s tongue. The lace scrapes against her and is deviously cold when Harriet pulls away to suck the other, mouth wet and sloppy. 

Draco can’t take much of it, of _knowing_ that Harriet has tasted herself and she hasn't even gotten to do the same. Plus, it occurs to her as she’s watching the lace of her bra cling to her skin with saliva that she can drench the kickers to transparency with her own spit if she has to. They’re her rules, so she can bend them as she chooses. “Stop,” she orders, getting a fist in Harriet’s hair and pushing her back. The peacock pin bites into her knuckles, so she lets go with a hiss. “Spread your legs.” 

Harriet whines but does as she’s told, and as Draco clambers down between her thighs, she realizes that she won't _need_ much spit, that the crotch is already soaked through and glistening, pushed up a bit between Harriet’s puffy labia to reveal flashes of pink between the dark matted-down curls and dusky brown skin. “Look at you,” she whispers, breathing her in, _loving_ how strong and spicy and perfect Harriet smells when she’s worked up like this. 

“Good? Wet?” Harriet blathers hopefully, worrying her hands in Draco’s plaid skirt. 

It’s that simple motion that makes Draco realize what she wants. “Get up,” she rasps, squeezing Harriet’s thigh and rolling onto her own back, mouth flooded. “Sit on my face...wanna suck your cunt under that skirt.” 

Harriet is keening and trembling as she gets into position, legs visibly weak to the point of spasming as she carefully straddles Draco’s face, lifting the skirt to look at her for a moment before she drops it. In the darkness and under the curtain of fabric, she smells even stronger, and Draco wants to cry with how badly she needs it, but she still takes her time, lavishing kisses and bites all over the quivering insides of Harriet's thighs, teasing her before she rewards them both. Harriet’s nearly crying by the time Draco allows her to lower herself down onto her mouth. 

With the layer of thin fabric separating her tongue from Harriet’s skin, she can’t push up inside her folds, but she can _taste_ her, can feel the hard little bud of her clit pressing to her lips as she kisses wet and open-mouthed and messy over her mound. She pushes at Harriet’s thighs so that she’s suspended an inch or so above her without crushing the air out of her, and there, panting, she licks at the soaked knickers like someone famished, hungry and messy, open mouth pressed flush against Harriet’s cunt. She’s simultaneously frustrated and delighted by the limitations the barrier provides, how Harriet is yelping but not too sensitive that she can’t grind down, fucking against Draco’s tongue, how she can feel her but not _really_ feel her. She digs her fingers into the meat of Harriet’s quads and sucks her wetness through the knickers, making her gasp and shudder and buck. And this is _maybe_ something that she’s thought about before, back when she was too young to really wonder much about what it meant. Getting under Harriet’s skirt, pressing flush against her, inhaling her, lungs filled with the overwhelming spice and musk of her. 

Draco loses herself in it, razing her teeth along the seam of the knickers, making fists in the plaid fabric and drawing her close, tugging until Harriet’s legs give out and she gives her full weight. For a few seconds, she delights in the thrill of not being able to breathe, every sense absorbed completely in Harriet before she shoves her off again, gasping as she hooks her fingers under the crotch of the knickers and pulls them aside, unable to stand it a second longer. 

It only takes a few minutes of swirling and flicking her tongue over Harriet’s throbbing clit before she tenses up and comes, convulsing on top of her and grinding all over her face so that Draco has slick down her chin and neck when Harriet finally pulls off, collapsing into a mess of limbs and skirt beside her. Draco recovers quickly, getting on all fours between Harriet’s splayed legs and arranging her how she pleases, skinny knees bent back toward her chest, cunt wet and sloppy and split and easily visible under the twisted crotch of her knickers. She looks a mess, and Draco loves it, can feel the flushed heat of her own cheeks as she dives back in, this time fucking her tongue up into Harriet’s slit, desperate to feel her, to taste her inside out. 

Harriet wails and writhes and then fists in Draco’s silk sheets to brace herself, and there she stays for another two or three orgasms, Draco isn't sure, but she doesn't let up until Harriet’s sobbing wordlessly. “That’s what you get for wearing my clothes,” she grunts, walking up the bed on her knees before collapsing next to Harriet’s wrecked body, panting like she was the one who just came. Then, she opens the canopy drapes, summons some water, and makes Harriet drink the whole thing while she pets her hair, kisses the peacock clip, and murmurs quiet, private things into her neck. “You didn’t even let me eat you out like you promised,” Harriet finally tells her when she recovers, the corners of her mouth turned up into a messy, complacent grin. “Just fucked me until I couldn’t even ask for it.” 

“I always know exactly what you need,” Draco tells her smugly, meaning it. “I can sit on _your_ face, later, once we have some dinner and finish up this wardrobe project you’re so excited about.’

“It’s a deal,” Harriet mumbles, lifting her hips and unzipping the skirt so that she can struggle out of it. “ _You_ can wear this uncomfortable thing next time...and tie me to the bed with those fancy silk scarves in the second drawer.” 

Draco’s eyes drift closed as she smiles. “You know, I _did_ used to fantasize about tying you to this bed and having my way with you,” she confesses. She means for it to come out as a taunt, but her voice is nothing but tatters and scrapes after using her mouth so much, so it sounds softer, rawer. “When we were in school.” 

“Oh, I’m _sure._ Having your way with me…what does that even mean? Hurting me? Cursing me?” Harriet asks, breath hot against the skin of Draco’s throat where she’s nestled. “I probably would have liked it even then.” 

“Actually,” Draco admits, cheeks colouring as she realizes it. “Doing pretty much exactly what we just did...making you come until you cried, snogging you, touching you all over. I didn’t really realize how odd that was until later. But even then, more than anything I wanted…to _own_ you, I guess. Even when I hated you, I didn’t really want to hurt you, I just wanted to make you need me. Or something. Sounds proper sick when I say it out loud.” 

“Hmmm,” Harriet says, “Good thing I _do_ need you, and we both figured it out before I _did_ end up tied to your four poster, yeah? Easier now, when we’re both sort of sick...between the two of us, maybe we’re just right.” 

Draco’s throat is thick, so she says nothing, only kisses Harriet Potter’s scar, and as if that were a seal being pushed into hot wax on a letter containing an apology for every awful thing she’s ever done, the house sighs around her. The roof settling into the walls, the walls settling into floorboards, the staircases shuddering stair by stair, and so on. Eventually, the house stills, and Draco thinks it almost feels like the expression of great, cosmic forgiveness. 

 


End file.
